


One Regret

by mindy_makru_tutu



Category: 30 Rock
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-16
Updated: 2010-01-16
Packaged: 2019-08-29 15:26:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16746574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindy_makru_tutu/pseuds/mindy_makru_tutu
Summary: Jack's getting married. But he and his best friend have one regret.





	One Regret

** PART I. **

  
_We have been friends for so long now, it’s not that I’ve been lying, just time I told the truth._  
_Strangers constantly between us, wish that they would leave us, only you and I. Just you and I._  
_Come in, can you hear me? Am I even talking? There is so much that I want you to know._  
_I’m counting on someday, you’ll wake up and see me, but you don’t want to know…_

  
Rebecca adores Colleen. And Colleen adores Rebecca.

Liz isn’t accustomed to the matriarch of the Donaghy brood having such a reaction to one of Jack’s girlfriends. Correction: _fiancee_. Jack’s fiancee. She keeps forgetting that Jack proposed. She keeps forgetting that Jack is engaged to be married, that Jack is _going_ to be married. That very soon, he will be a happily married man, a newlywed. She really thinks it’s going to happen this time. This time, she’s pretty sure Jack is going to make it all the way to the altar with his intended.

In the past, it has not been uncommon for Liz to find herself stuck in the middle of her best friend’s lovelife, forced to give an opinion. Most of the time, she just found it a little annoying. And a lot uncomfortable. More recently, she started to secretly resent it. She particularly didn’t enjoy being present for when Colleen and Jack would bicker over his latest choice of lady. Because -- whatever they did or did not say -- they all knew who Colleen thought was his perfect match. And the truth is, she got a little used to being the one woman Colleen approved of. The one Jack’s mom favored above all the others.

She got even more used to being the one Jack needed above all others.

No one is asking her opinion now though. No one cares for it. Not Colleen. Not Jack. Certainly not Rebecca. From what Liz knows, she is not a woman who is prone to doubt or insecurity. She rarely requires advice. Like Jack, she is generally the one doling out the ideal counsel, though perhaps with a little more tact than her fiance. She doesn’t seem to feel in any way uncertain in her relationship with Jack, as C.C. did when seeking her advice. She has not ambushed Liz with a terrible secret she’s been withholding from him as Elisa did. And frankly, Liz is hoping she never does.

She doesn’t want to be the one holding such power over Jack’s fate and happiness. She never liked that. She’s very happy to let that responsibility fall to someone else. Someone more steadfast, someone more confident, and more capable than many of Jack’s former loves. Or herself, for that matter.

For the record, not that anyone has asked, but if they did ask for her opinion on Jack’s future wife, it would not to be difficult to find nice things to say about her. Unlike Pheobe who only had to appear to annoy her. Rebecca is lovely. And lovable. Dazzlingly gorgeous with blonde, bobbed hair, generous, smiling lips and always alive brown eyes. She has an Amazonian figure, tall but nicely rounded, and relaxed in its movement. She is younger than Jack, but not obscenely so, and shares his zest for business and travel and most especially, food. She is a chef, quite a celebrated one, who proves the old adage that the best and fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. She won Jack over with her homemade chocolate pudding and he’s been smitten ever since.

Liz has never seen him so happy in love. And she’s seen him happy in love plenty of times. Jack has always been very good at that first blush of romance. He’s very apt at indulging that initial attraction. What he is not so great at is what follows. All the real stuff, all the hard stuff, all the lasting stuff. All the romances Liz has been witness to have faded alarmingly fast -- leaving Jack lonely, morose and momentarily bitter. Not that he allows himself to wallow for very long. He always seems to find some way to rationalize himself out of his heartache and get back in the proverbial game.

This romance, however, does not seem to be fading. Jack and Rebecca have known each other six months, been dating for four. And are getting married in three days. Colleen is thrilled. Jack is ecstatic. Rebecca is radiant. And Liz is the best man.

Jack asked her and she accepted -- of course. Caught up in his enthusiasm, she’d had little choice. It was only afterwards that she wondered whether she really did want the gig. She’d never been a best man before. She’d never even been a bridesmaid before. And she was not that comfortable with weddings in general, let alone the fancy sort that Jack and Rebecca were planning. As this was Jack though, Liz stuck to her word, promising to do whatever she could to make her best friend’s special day exactly what he hoped.

She asked him what she needed to do. And she had only three duties. Stand beside him at the ceremony. Make a speech at the reception. And not dress like a small town lesbian. Or a big city lesbian. Or really, a lesbian of any kind.

In fact, being Jack’s best man apparently gave him veto power over her outfit for the event. And when he rejected every single one of her suggestions, he took it upon himself to arrange for the appropriate apparel for a woman performing the role of best man at a high society wedding. This is how she ended up in an elegant dressing room being prodded and poked by a sadistic seamstress as Jack, his mother and his future wife look on. If she had realized this was going to be a group excursion, she would never have agreed to it. But according to Jack, it was Colleen’s idea to turn her fitting into a chance for them all to have lunch.

Currently, Liz’s only concern is desperately trying to invent a work-related excuse that Jack won’t see through so that she can return to her office and skip the planned lunch. She’s never been a fan of being the third wheel. So she certainly doesn’t relish the idea of being the fourth. No matter how good the scallops are meant to be. The only thing she can find to be in any way grateful about in this situation is that Rebecca and her Amazonian body are way over in the other corner of the plush, spacious dressing room, chatting to Colleen about the culinary delights of Monte Carlo or something. As long as she stays over there and no where near Liz’s own reflection in the floor-length, three-sided, unforgivingly-lit mirror, she’s sure she can make it through this.

She’s sure, that is, until Jack comes up behind her, eyeing her reflection with his usual precision.

“It’s too tight across her bust,” he tells the seamstress: “She’s usually much smaller.” He glances up at her: “Or is it that time of the month, Lemon?”

Liz turns to him, mouth dropping open. “All right, that’s it!” She stumbles down off the raised platform, brushing Jack’s shoulder as she passes. “We’re done here…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Rebecca says, shooting Jack a disapproving look as she approaches. She turns Liz around with cool, competent hands then leads her back to the mirror: “Let me take a look.”

Liz tries to squirm away. “I think it’s okay…actually.”

Colleen approaches too, the two women drag her right up to the mirror, standing either side of her, inspecting her plain, tailored dress, the pins still sticking into her flesh. And for a brief moment, under their scrutiny and with the proximity of the mirror, Liz feels trapped. She feels like she can’t breathe. She can’t catch any air.

“Well, I think she looks great,” Rebecca announces, rounding on her almost husband with a gleeful grin: “What’s the matter with you? She’s gorgeous!”

“It’s perfect,” Colleen agrees, grasping Liz’s shoulders and giving her a shake, making the pins prick her harder. “Best looking best man I’ve seen in years.” She turns abruptly and grabs her bag: “Now let’s eat.”

“Very well...” Jack shrugs, taking his fiancee’s hand and looping it over his arm: “As long as you’re happy, my sweet.”

He leans in to kiss her. Rebecca avoids his mouth though, kissing him instead on the nose. Probably, Liz assumes, watching in the mirror, not wanting to make out with him in front of his mom. And the elderly seamstress. And the irate nerd with the small boobs.

“Liz. Hurry up and change,” Colleen orders as she follows the happy couple out: “We have reservations.”

“Oh, but, Colleen--”

“No buts,” Colleen turns at the door of the dressing room, giving her one last inspection: “We have to discuss your speech.” The door shuts behind her before Liz can even muster an excuse.

As soon as it does, Liz slumps in her pinned dress, letting out a big breath. Silently, the seamstress comes up behind her, unzips the dress.

“You happy?” she asks in a thick accent.

Liz looks up. “I’m sorry?”

“With dress,” the lady prompts, grey eyes blinking behind wire frames: “with fit. Are you happy with it? For big day?”

“Oh…” Liz smiles and nods. “Yes. Thank you. Yes, I’m happy.”

The seamstress nods at her, then exits.

Liz draws in another breath.

* * *

She has writer’s block. Chronic writer’s block. She hasn’t had writer’s block in years. Her brain is like a well-tuned instrument, churning out ideas and observations and gags on a daily basis. It’s what she does. It’s the only thing she is good at, the only thing she was ever good at. Putting smart, perfectly honed words into other people’s mouths. Only in this case, it’s her own.

She’s given lots of these things though. Weddings, funerals, birthdays, bar mitzvahs, bat mitzvahs, retirements, AA meetings. Whatever the occasion, people often ask her to write or say a few words. Because they know she’ll make it something funny and pointed and maybe a little touching. Even if she doesn’t really know the person that well. It's her one and only social asset.

Except tonight. Her one asset, her one talent, has deserted her. Tonight of all nights.

It’s ridiculous. She knows Jack better than anyone. And still…she’s got nothing. Not a single teasing quip or entertaining anecdote. When it comes to Jack, she’s got a blank page. That’s it. She’s been trying to write this speech for weeks. For two weeks she’s been trying to think of something sweet and amusing to say about her best friend. At first, she really wasn’t that worried when the words didn’t flow. She knew she could pull this off. After all, it was her job. The funny would come. It always did. Well…mostly, it did. What she ended up with though, was a bunch of crumpled up post-its and food-stained cliches – all of which she discarded the night before – but no best man speech.

There are six known and accepted stages to writer’s block -- truly dire writer’s block. Confusion. Desperation. Resignation. Defeat. Recapitulation of all of these. And panic. Liz has now reached panic. Mind-paralyzing panic. Pete recognizes this as soon as he flings open the door of the toilet stall she is hiding in to see her bent over, scribbling madly on toilet sheets as she mumbles to herself.

“Have you got something?” he asks, hysteria lacing his tone. “ _Anything_?”

Liz glares up at him darkly. He, of all people, should know better than that. The worst thing to do in the presence of someone in the throws of writer’s block panic is to also be panicking. She shoves a piece of scribbled on toilet paper at him, eyes wide and desperate.

“Is this funny?” she asks.

Pete squints at it, turns the paper this way and that: “Is it English?”

She snatches it back, smooths it over her knee.

Pete shrugs: “Looks like Mandarin...”

She buries her head in her hands. “Oh, jeez. I am dead. I’ve got nothing…”

Pete leans down, taking her shoulders in his hands and putting on his most calming, rational voice. The one he has to use practically every day as a producer. “Listen, it’s just the rehearsal dinner, Liz. It doesn’t have to be Shakespeare. It doesn’t even have to be Shakesprick.”

She looks up. “Huh?”

“He’s a comedy writer,” Pete mutters: “not a very good one.”

“Oh.”

“You’ve done this before, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, this time is no different.”

“…Right.”

“So just go out there,” he says, overly encouraging: “say a few nice things about Jack and propose a toast to the bride and groom. That’s all you have to do. You can do that.”

She nods up at him: “Yeah…okay. Keep saying things like that.”

“You know Jack,” he reminds her gently: “You like Jack. You’re doing this…”

She nods again. “For Jack, right.” She sucks in a deep breath then abruptly rises, pushing past him in the stall: “I’ve got to get outta here…”

“Are you gonna hyperventilate?” Pete asks, the panic returning to his tone as he watches her gulping down oxygen.

“Maybe…” Liz paces the tile, hands on her hips, heels clicking back and forth: “Will it get me out of making this speech, d’you think?”

“I doubt it.”

Just then, Jack pushes the door open, sticking his head around the corner: “Lemon. There you are. We’re ready for you.”

Liz paints on a smile, punching a fist in the air. “Great! I’m ready!”

Jack nods, then disappears, the door swinging closed behind him.

She rounds on Pete – panicked: “I’ve got nothing!”

“Well…” he murmurs, physically propelling her towards the door despite her resisting: “you better think of something between here and the table because you’re up.”

There is only one known cure for acute writer’s block. Surrender. And going right back to the beginning. Starting all over.

As Pete leads her back to the rehearsal dinner, Liz watches her heels sink into the deep green carpet. And for one moment, she closes her eyes, gives in completely. She thinks back. She goes right back to the beginning. Not to the first day she met Jack, or the first time she laughed at one of his dumb jokes. Not to the first time she knew she actually liked him, not even to the first time she suspected that _he_ liked _her_. But back to the first time she can remember thinking that Jack Donaghy, despite all his various failings -- and by now she knew them all -- was a really, really good man.

It’s as this particular thought occurs to her that she looks up and realizes that she and Pete are back in the impeccably decorated banquet room at the impeccably decked-out table and there is a sea of impeccably dressed people staring at her. Including Jack, blue eyes expectant. The room – filled with members of the sizeable wedding party, various close relatives of both Jack and Rebecca, as well as some work colleagues and friends who’ve joined in the pre-wedding party, not to mention their highly-strung wedding coordinator and her seven or so assistants -- suddenly goes quiet. Jack nods, gives her a smile.

Liz lifts a hand to adjust her glasses only to realize she isn’t wearing them. Taking a breath, she mutters: ”Oh boy,” to herself before stepping up to the microphone and starting to speak. “Hi, everybody, hi--” The mic screeches and she pulls back: “Oh. Sorry…”

She lets out a nervous laugh, then begins falteringly: “Well…I’m…Jack’s best man. And…it’ll be my duty on the day to stand up here and say something cute about my good buddy Jack here.” She gestures to Jack who positively beams next to his bride. She swiftly averts her eyes, deciding she should probably not look at him -- or them -- while she attempts to discharge her duty. “For those of you who don’t know me,” she continues: “I write a comedy show thing, with, um, sketches. Some of them funny, some of them, Jack tells me, not so much.” She hears Jack chuckle at this. Next to her, Pete lets out a snort. “So-o…” she muses impishly: “I guess maybe some people are expecting me to get up here and make a whole bunch of jokes about the groom.”

She pauses, expecting an encouraging mumble from the listening guests. What she gets is nothing. Dead air. Someone coughs. Someone else drops their fork. The photographer takes a picture. The wedding coordinator shakes her head. Apart from this, the room remains silent and still. And expectant. Liz casts a wide-eyed look at Pete who shrugs, offering no help at all.

She clears her throat, placing her fingertips on the edge of the table to steady herself. “Well. Believe me, I was gonna go that route, you know. It would be real easy to make fun of…the slicked-back hair and the obsession with Michael Buble tunes and the Groucho Marx cigars, right?” At this, there are a few amused twitters. From the corner of her eye, Liz can see Rebecca run an affectionate hand down Jack’s arm. Liz ducks her head, reaches for her wineglass. “But…the thing is,” she goes on, not quite knowing where she is headed: “ever since I’ve known Jack, he has been looking. Looking for that special lady to share his life with. And…he’s had his heart broken a couple of times.” She pauses, gulps. “But it never totally stopped him from believing that he would find that one person who meant the world to him. And -- Jack being Jack --” she cannot help darting a quick glance in his direction: “he made me believe in that too.”

She lifts her glass, raising her voice a little to announce: “So…I guess, at this point, I would like to ask everyone to please raise their glasses, to the bride and groom. May we all be lucky enough to find someone as perfect for us as Jack is for Rebecca and Rebecca is for Jack.”

She watches as everyone round the room obeys, all the guests she does and does not know, all the fashionable and distinguished people follow suit. All eyes turned on the glowing couple with affectionate approval. Every single voice echoing loudly: “Jack and Rebecca.”

Then as quiet chatter fills the room, she sinks back into her seat, slowly, gratefully, knees shaking.

Pete leans over, muttering over the light applause: “Perfect. But you looked green the whole time.”

She nods, downing the rest of her drink: “I’m just glad I didn’t hurl.”

“'Course you do realize,” he adds, munching on some shrimp: “you have to do it all again in a couple of days.” He waves a hand, still munching. “Only way better.”

She lets out a low moan. “Now I’m gonna hurl.”

She looks up then, catching Jack’s eye across the room. He is shaking hands with some people, looking handsome and relaxed in his favorite suit. Rebecca is in pink by his side, kissing another woman’s cheek. When his eyes meet hers through the throng, he gives her a little smile that crinkles his eyes, that is almost covert in its affection. Liz smiles back.

Pete peers at her face. “Are you okay? Now you’ve gone pink.”

Liz blows some air out through her lips. “What? It’s just a little stage fright, Pete. I’m fine now.”

His eyes narrow at her worriedly. “Here.” He pours her another drink. “Get drunk.”

“Thank you.” Liz bobs her head and lifts the glass to her lips: “That is the plan.”

* * *

Apparently, there is a fourth duty to the best man gig. Be there when the groom freaks out. It’s an assumed obligation but an important one.

Liz would do this anyway. She is probably the only person on the planet who has seen Jack Donaghy in full-blown freak out mode. As such, she is the only one who knows how to deal with him in full-blown freak out mode. And as his best man, she is contractually obligated to be there for him. Or at least, that’s what he said when he phoned her at two in the morning the day of his wedding to tell her he was coming over. Normally, Liz would just talk him back to sleep, calm him down enough for them both to get some rest. But this was a special situation, an urgent case. And anyway, he hung up before she could point out that they never actually put anything in writing.

She is digging through her freezer when she hears the knock at her door. Jack walks straight in as soon as she opens it, taking the carton of ice cream and the spoon she’s holding in her hand. Over the next few hours, between the two of them, they manage to consume most of the contents of her fridge. Half the pint of ice cream, two blocks of cheese and some leftover Mexican later they have verbally dissected and rehashed every one of Jack's significant relationships. And gotten absolutely nowhere.

Liz still feels like there’s something he’s not telling her. But then, she often feels that way with Jack. In the end, she falls asleep listening to his voice, and when she wakes, early morning light is peeking through the curtains. She is stretched out on the couch, drooling on one of her favorite throw pillows while Jack is out cold on the floor, snoring quietly, one hand on his chest, and a cushion tucked under his cheek.

She rubs her hands over her face, wiping the sleep out of her eyes. Then rolling onto her side, she reaches out a hand, prodding Jack’s chest with the tips of her fingers. “Hey…Jack?”

Jack rolls onto his side, mumbling unintelligibly.

She withdraws her hand. Frowns at him. Waits a few seconds. Prods him again. And gets no response.

“Suit yourself…” she grumbles, slipping a foot to the floor, between his curled up body and the edge of the couch. She’s rising to her feet when a warm hand curls round her ankle, and gives a tug. She topples, only just catching herself on the coffee table.

Jack chuckles low in his throat, sleepy eyes cracking open, glinting up at her.

“Hilarious,” she mutters, making sure to kick him once as she steps over his prone body. “So mature…”

“Ow!” Jack moans, clutching his leg.

She snorts loudly, slopping her way towards the coffeepot.

“Lemon?” Jack calls after her.

She pulls the coffee filters out of the kitchen cabinet. “What?”

“I’m getting married today!” he announces, voice full of unbridled, almost boyish excitement.

Liz bobs her head sleepily. “I know!” she calls back.

Jack appears in the threshold, hair askew, dress shirt creased and partially unbuttoned. “Can I ask you something?”

“I don’t wear the shorts in public,” she replies defensively: “Just to bed. Okay?”

 _“Not--_ ” he clarifies, gaze dropping to her oversized shorts: “about your shorts. Although they are…” he shakes his head, apparently unable at this early hour to come up with a decent slur on her sleepwear: “…something.”

She snorts again, continues to make the coffee. “Ask away then.”

Jack sidles closer. “Do you think…” he murmurs very slowly: “I will make a good husband?”

Liz stops what she’s doing, looks over at him, then away again. A small smile curves her lips. “I do.”

Jack smiles. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.” Her smile increases. She reaches over to give him an encouraging arm-punch. “You’re gonna do great! You’re gonna have it all, Jack, you’re gonna be _happy_.”

Jack nods thoughtfully, shuffling closer. He picks up the coffee mug next to her TGS mug, regards it seriously. “And…it’s perfectly normal to have second thoughts. Everybody gets cold feet. Right?”

He is standing a little too close, looking a little too rumpled, the morning light harsh on his lined face. The cologne he wears each day is a mere trace on his skin, and all she can smell is the real Jack, the actual man. And Liz has to take a moment to remind herself of what she is to this man. This man who is barefoot in her kitchen and in the final stages of an engagement. He is all but married, and she is his best man, his best friend.

So she opens her mouth. And tells him what she thinks he wants to hear. “It’s totally normal,” she says lightly. She waves a dismissive hand: “Happens to everyone.”

Jack lowers his head, then seems to shake himself, straightening his spine and drawing in a breath. “Rebecca is amazing.”

“She is,” Liz agrees, and she’s glad that she can at least say that and mean it. “She seems to love you a lot.”

Jack clears his throat. And for a fleeting moment something clouds his eyes. “Yes…Yes, she does. Doesn’t she?” he says, before the cloud dissipates.

Liz returns to fixing their coffee.

“And it’s about time I settled down,” he muses, running a hand over his unshaven jaw.

“You’re not getting any younger,” she tells him with a belligerent toss of her head.

Jack lets out an amused humph, leaning back against the kitchen counter. This puts him on a level with her so that when he meets her eyes it’s directly. “I have only one regret.”

She tilts her head at him. “What?”

Jack is silent. His eyes speak volumes though. The look he gives her is rife with concealed longing, an obscure pain, to the point that she has to look away, she can’t stand to see it. Her breath catches in her throat. Because she knows -- she feels in her own gut -- exactly what his one regret is. He won’t voice it, doesn’t have to. Because it’s hers too. She knows it. Too well.

Truthfully, privately, she always thought she was the only one, the only one who felt that way. She thought she was alone in seeing some vague, unfulfilled potential in their friendship. She thought, of the two of them, she was the only one who’d never completely understood that all these years, she’d been holding out some tiny little hope. Until that is, there was no longer anything left to hope for.

But now she knows. She knows the truth. It wasn’t conjecture, and it wasn’t imagination. It wasn’t some phantom inclination, born of loneliness and their mutual dysfunction. It was a fact, an actuality. One that neither of them voiced, and now never will. She was _not_ the only one. She _is_ not the only one. Between them, they have one thing in common. One silent regret. Now that she knows this though, Liz wishes she didn’t. Because it’s too late. Much too late. Any chance they had is long gone. Any potential that might’ve existed will go unfulfilled. It’s got to.

Because in just over four hours, Jack is getting married.

* * *

Her dress is too tight on her boobs. Jack was right. Not about it being her time of the month, but about the fit. She’s popping out the top of it. Not badly, but enough to make her self-conscious. Apart from this, the dress Jack chose for her is perfect. It’s classy and comfortable and exactly her style. And the lavender color will match perfectly with Jack’s tie, which she supposes was the whole idea. She would never have thought of that. But Jack did. Because lavender is one of Rebecca’s favourite flowers.

Liz is adjusting the top of her dress, trying to tug it up over herself when Jack comes in from the other room of the little suite they are inhabiting in the church chambers during the lead up to his wedding. He ignores her fidgeting with her dress, holding out both hands, palms up.

“Would you mind?”

“’Course…” she smiles, taking the cuff links from one of his hands: “That’s what I’m here for.”

She’s rather relieved to have something to focus on other than his face, his eyes. It’s been a little awkward. Since that morning. In her kitchen. Not that they’ve discussed it. They’ve barely spoken since actually. They’ve haven’t had time. Also, Jack is giving off a weird vibe that she hopes is just pre-wedding jitters. She hopes everything is fine, everything will be fine. Because she wants more than anything for everything to be fine between them, and for Jack to be happy.

So maybe the awkward vibe is down to her. Maybe she’s trying a bit too hard. Maybe she’s not real good at this wedding stuff. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for this gig. After all, it’s probably tradition for the best man and the groom to hang out before the ceremony, get dressed and ready together, bond a little, revisit the groom’s single life. They’ve done the last part already. But the getting dressed part has been…weird. Of course, most best men are the same gender as the groom, so maybe that’s why. Also, most best men probably do not have feelings for the groom. Though who really knows, this is New York City.

But she admits it. To herself, at the very least. She has feelings for Jack. Strange feelings. Romantic feelings. Stomach-churning feelings. She always has had them. From the moment he mouthed: ‘You’re welcome’ to her from a closing elevator. That’s the earliest she can identify their stealthy presence. And possibly it should not have taken her this long to really see it. But she only realized this, gave in to it today. The day Jack is meant to be married. The day he _will_ be married. No matter what the two of them might privately regret.

After all, she and Jack have known each other for years. They aren’t star-crossed lovers. It wasn’t like they never had the opportunity. They did. They just didn’t take it. And just because they have something great as friends, it doesn’t mean it should’ve been more. Just because both of them at some point wished for more, it doesn’t automatically follow that it would’ve been a good idea or it would’ve worked out. Or that _they_ were meant to be any more that he and Rebecca were meant to be.

Rebecca is the one he fell for. Rebecca is the one he asked. Rebecca is the one who said yes to loving Jack and marrying him and making him happy. Liz never got a chance to say or do, or even consider saying or doing any of those things. Maybe if she’d been a little braver or smarter or quicker she might’ve. Or…maybe not. Who knew. There wasn’t any point in wondering, or wishing, and there was no way to go back now and change it.

This is the way it happened, the way things turned out. Maybe it’s the way it would always have turned out. Maybe Jack and Rebecca are meant to be one thing, and she and Jack are just meant to be something else. Something different. Something…less. And this, whatever it is – and she’s kinda hoping it’s just a mid-life crisis of some sort -- is something she will just get over, in time. She has to, and she has before, so she will again.

But it still makes Liz hyper aware of the fact that Jack’s hands are both millimeters from her breasts, fingers curled up as she fixes the silver cuff links to his sleeves. And that he can probably see her boobs spilling over a bit every time she breathes. Which is heavier because of how close he is and how nice he smells. And how everything is going to be different from this day forward.

She gives his hand a little tap when she is done. “There you go.”

“Thank you,” he says then takes a small jewellery box out of his pocket and hands it to her with no fanfare at all: “And these are for you.” He turns to the mirror, tugging on his shirtsleeves and adjusting his tie as she opens the little box.

Inside, two sparkling studs are nestled side by side.

“Are these…?”

“Diamonds,” Jack replies: “of course. Not the best clarity but they belonged to my grandmother.”

She looks up at him, lips parted. “Jack. These…should stay in the family.”

He smiles mildly, sending her a sideways glance. “They’re on loan. Colleen wanted you to have them. For the wedding. Put them on.”

She hesitates before stepping up to the mirror, beside Jack. Her elbow brushes his as she removes the pearl earrings she put on and slides the two delicate diamonds into place. Her eyes meet his in the mirror. Jack smiles his approval. Then he surprises her by turning, deliberately moving in and wrapping her up in a hug. Despite her surprise, her arms naturally lift, hugging him back. She is further surprised when he doesn’t pull back immediately, doesn’t mumble a joke into her hair. His hands rest on the small of her back as she feels him draw in a breath, hold her tight. And Liz finds herself wondering if this is Jack’s way of saying thank you – for being there, for being his best man. Or whether it’s his way of wordlessly saying a sort of goodbye.

Colleen’s voice startles them apart. “Oh my, I do hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” Jack replies then strides over to kiss her cheek: “Good morning, Mother.”

Liz smiles, dipping her head. “Good morning, Mrs Donaghy.”

Colleen humphs, casting a blatantly suspicious look at each of them. She runs a critical eye over her son’s attire as she addresses him. “Jack, Father Peter has arrived. He wants to see you before the ceremony.”

He turns to leave. “Thank you.”

“And--” she adds sharply before he goes: “I’m told Rebecca just left. She’s on her way.”

Jack nods silently. But his eyes slip past his mother to Liz, gaze accidentally colliding with hers. “Good…thank you,” he says again, ducking his head as he leaves the little room.

Colleen turns to face Liz, throwing her beaded purse down on a nearby chair. “You look lovely, Liz,” she remarks with barely a trace of praise in the statement.

“Oh, thank you, Colleen,” she replies, shifting on the spot. “You look very nice too.”

Colleen hums, narrowing her eyes at her chest. “Jack was right about the bust.”

Liz grimaces, covering her boobs with both hands: “I know. Is it really bad?”

Colleen casts her a look from the corners of her steely eyes. “As you are not the bride, I doubt anyone will be looking too closely.”

“Well…” She turns to the mirror to adjust herself some more: “That’s good, I guess.”

Jack’s mother moves to stand beside the mirror. “Are you in love with my son?”

Liz pauses in shock. And swallows. “…What?”

“Because if you are,” she says with a wave of her bony fingers: “I am here to tell you that I have a very big mouth.”

“I know that,” Liz assures her before she can stop herself.

Her eyes widen a moment before she chuckles.

“I’m so sorry,” Liz fumbles: “What I mean is--”

“Are you in love,” she asks again, voice almost soft: “with Jack?”

Liz opens her mouth, draws in a breath and holds it.

Colleen lifts her brows expectantly. “A simple yes or no will suffice.”

Liz is quiet. Because feelings are one thing, feelings are fleeting. Love. That’s…another thing.

She wants to just say no. The way she always has. And it only then strikes her as odd how often people have assumed that about her, about them. It would be so simple to say no, so uncomplicated. To say uh-uh, negative, no sir. Never have been, never will be. And what a ridiculous thought. She’s been saying it for years, believing it for years. She can almost hear the automatic denial come out of her mouth, the safety of it, the familiarity of it. She can almost believe it. And yet another part of her wants wildly to break out and say yes. To scream it. To release it. As if saying it out loud, hearing it spoken, having it out there might somehow allow her to finally understand whether it’s true or not.

What Liz actually says is: “I don’t know.”

Which is also true. Or as true as she is willing to get. Especially with Jack’s mom.

“Why?” Liz asks her, wincing.

She does not want to hear that it’s obvious, that everyone can tell she is, if she is. That she knows. Or that Jack knows. Or that Rebecca knows. That the whole congregation is gonna see it when she’s standing up there next to him.

Colleen takes a breath and replies in a resounding tone: “ _If any persons here present know any just cause why these two should not joined in holy matrimony_ …”

Liz’s eyes widen in terror. “No!”

“May they speak now--”

“Hold your peace!” Liz interrupts frantically: “ _Please Colleen_ , hold your peace!”

“I thought you’d say that,” she muses, distinctly unimpressed. “And it’s not that I don’t like Rebecca--” She pauses mid-thought to check her lipstick in the mirror: “It’s just that I don’t see her making Jackie happy. Not long-term. Do you?”

“Um…” Liz bows her head, more uncomfortable than any time she can remember in her life. Which is really, _really_ uncomfortable. She raises a hand to one of the diamonds studs. “I wanted to thank you for the earrings.”

“They were my mother’s.”

“I know.”

“She won them in a poker game.”

Liz laughs slightly. “You’re kidding?”

“Believe me,” Colleen tells her dryly: “if I’d had any idea what they were worth I would’ve hocked them years ago for food money.”

“Well, thank you,” she says again with a little smile: “it’s very generous.”

“Don’t thank me,” she mutters, heading for the door: “It was Jackie who wanted you to have them.” She turns back, one hand on the doorknob and one eyebrow arched. “My son loves you very much,” Colleen tells her, tone short and matter-of-fact. “…In case you were wondering.” She walks out, only to march back in a second later to retrieve her purse. “But you definitely don’t want me to--” She jabs a finger towards the church entrance.

Liz nods and shakes her head both at once. “ _Definitely_.”

“You’re sure?” she asks: “I’ve brought more than one wedding to an abrupt halt, you know.”

“Yes,” Liz tells her firmly: “No interruptions. _Please_ , Colleen. I beg you.”

Colleen straightens in the doorway, regarding her for a moment with piercing blue eyes. “In that case, I’m not sure you deserve him.” With which, she swings the door shut behind her.

Outside, Liz can hear the music start to play.

 

  
**PART II.  **  
_  
_

_Now you’re moving out of range, you’re drifting off my radar, won’t return my calls._  
_So you’re not my happy ending, there’s no use pretending. No use at all…_  
_Can’t keep going, I can’t keep going around and around these same feelings._  
_Can you hear me now? Now I’m over and out._

It’s two a.m. when Jack calls.

He’s been married four months, one of which was the honeymoon, and he seems happy. But he never talks about his happiness, his home life, his new wife. Which is unusual for Jack when he is happy about something. And which leads Liz to wonder whether he truly is. Whether he and Rebecca might be having problems already. Whether all the travel Rebecca must do for her job is taking a toll on their young marriage. Or if Jack’s long hours and unstinting career commitment are the usual culprit. Liz doesn’t ask, of course. Nothing has been the same between them, not since the wedding. They both seem to be trying to pretend that nothing changed four months prior, when they both know it did.

Jack is already half drunk when he arrives. Not loaded, but a little unstable and noticeably erratic. This time, they don’t eat. There’s little in her fridge except a bottle of Pinot Grigio which they polish off in no time at all. Probably their first mistake. They don’t talk much either. And whatever Jack does divulge doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to her. The wine makes Liz drowsy and before long, she has fallen asleep on her couch while Jack snores beside her on the floor. Her thirst wakes her, her dehydrated throat. And her head spins slightly when she sits up on the couch. It’s still dark outside as she prods Jack with her foot. She gets no response other than a minor increase in the volume of his snoring. So she puts her foot to the floor, testing her balance, careful where she treads.

She yelps in surprise when she feels a hand circle her ankle and hold on tight. She nearly topples, stepping over him, this time stopping herself with one hand on his shoulder. Jack doesn’t laugh. Nor does he release her. The sly smirk on his lips disappears as he looks up at her, her hair falling in her eyes, her hand on his shoulder, his hand on her bare leg. Liz tucks her hair behind one ear, straightening slowly, feeling her breath very suddenly deepen. Jack’s eyes are still on her face, she can feel them there as his other hand reaches up and grips her wrist, more gently than he did her ankle.

He pulls gently, drags her down and she goes, without thinking, sinking down as he sits up, his knees bent and feet flat on the floor. She’s in his lap before she knows why, kneeling over him as his hands grasp her face. He pulls her forward and their mouths join and open, gasping for breath as they collide over and over. Once they start they can’t stop, tongues tangling as they exchange muffled moans. His hands move down her back, over her ass, urging her closer. And she feels the hardness between his legs that maybe was there already or maybe is just because of her. She hears herself moan his name. And then suddenly she is on her back, on the floor. She hears the thump of her bones hitting but feels nothing.

Nothing but him. His hands creeping up her shorts, his chest rubbing over her tingling breasts, his mouth tugging relentlessly at hers. She feels the urgency in him overtake her, consume her, an urgency she can’t match no matter how she wants him. And she does. Blindly, and in a way she’s never, ever experienced before. But they’re not in sync. Her mind is still catching up, her body still waking up. She is still focused on preliminary sensations; his mouth and his hands, his face leaning over her, his body covering her. The strangeness of it all, the newness of it all, the excitement of it all.

She doesn’t register him pulling down her shorts because it’s all just too much and it’s happening too fast. And this isn’t how it was meant to be. This is never how they were meant to be. Because suddenly he is in her, buried deep in one swift thrust. And she cries out, partially in complete shock and partially in unbelievably relieved pleasure. Jack only hears the shock.

He stops immediately, pulls back to look at her. And, all at once, everything pauses. Everything just changes. All the furious energy fades, the unstoppable passion flags. They are frozen in place. Almost as though they don’t know how they got there. As if they woke up fused together, inexplicably joined, not knowing how, not knowing why. He is hard inside her, tense above her. She is open, stunned beneath him. And as her breathing starts to calm and she regains some equilibrium, she finds herself blinking up at her best friend, who stares down at her, with this awful, terrible expression on his face. Beneath the remnants of desire, she sees the contrition in his eyes, the shock on his face, the incredulous, intense regret streaked across both.

She wants to tell him that it’s okay, that she’s okay. But she’s not sure it is, or she is. She wants to reach up to erase the regret. But she knows that this is one moment that is irrevocable, undeniable. She wants to tell him that it’s not his fault, but then she remembers that he has a wife he made vows to, who is probably waiting for him this very second. She wants to tell him to keep going, that he feels incredible but she won’t. Because she can’t. Because it might wreck anything of themselves they still might salvage. More than anything, she wants to tell him she loves him, and that she’s wanted this more than she even knew. But she is not that brave and never has been.

Her hands are inside his shirt, fingertips pressed into his flesh. Liz slides them both down to his hips, saying softly. “Jack…we…can’t. We…have to stop.”

Jack blinks at her a few times, eyelids heavy, still taking in the expression on her face, still processing the position of their entwined bodies. He grunts as he carefully lifts himself off her, onto his hands. The movement shifts him inside her and his hips flex involuntarily, sending a white-hot streak of pleasure through her body. He groans, slumping low, wanting to give in. She groans, head dropping to one side and one hand pressing up into his chest.

“Jack…” she whispers breathlessly: “Oh God…don’t. I’m not on anything. Please…you have to stop.”

Jack nods, his head bowed, hair falling limply over his forehead. With enormous effort, he drops his hot head between her still clothed breasts, Liz puts both hands on his shoulders and he slowly starts to pull out of her. He lets out a gigantic breath as he withdraws completely, face red and chest heaving. Then he collapses back against the couch, tucking himself away and averting his gaze as she sits up, righting her shorts.

He runs a hand over his head and, after a long silence, after they‘ve both managed to fill their lungs with air, he asks her: “You alright?”

Liz nods, looks over at him, quickly looks away again. “I’m okay.”

Jack nods blankly, staring at nothing.

From the corner of her eye, she glances him over. “Are you okay?”

Jack turns his head towards her but doesn’t meet her eyes. “I…I can’t believe that happened,” he admits.

She lowers her head. “It didn’t.”

“I should go,” he says abruptly, quietly. He gets to his feet, shame pervading every movement he makes. He takes a few steps, turns back, tries to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry, Liz. I…don’t know what came over me. I apologize. Deeply.”

“Hey…” She scrambles to her feet, tilts her head to one side trying to catch his gaze. “Do you…wanna talk, Jack or--?”

“I don’t want to talk anymore,” he mumbles. “I don’t-- I’m just…so sorry.” He walks to the door, opens it and turns back to look at her, standing in the same spot, hands knit.

“I‘m sorry,” Jack says one last time before leaving.

All she can think, watching him go, is that their one regret just doubled itself.

* * *

She can’t stop eating. Morning, noon and night. She’s insatiable. And it’s not hard to figure out why.

It’s not just straightforward guilt. It’s more than that, way more. She wants something she can’t have. She wants something she almost – so nearly – got. And she’s trying desperately to forget that, suppress it.

By eating.

Of course.

Nothing eases inescapable guilt and inexpressible longing like cold egg rolls for breakfast, steaming waffles for lunch and a mocha frappacino every hour on the hour. And cheese. There must always, always be cheese. Liz is slurping at the last of her coffee confection, crouched comfortably in her favourite corner of the prop storage space, where only one person knows to find her. Surrounded by the spoils of her escalating bingeing, she’s working on some last minute changes to one of that night’s sketches, when Pete cranes his head round the corner then marches straight in.

“Alright.” He pulls up a crate, sits down. “Talk.”

Liz crumples her brow at him. “Whacha talkin’ about?”

He lets out an impatient sigh. “Liz. How often do I ask you about your personal life?”

She takes a last big slurp before throwing her coffee cup away. “I talk to you about personal stuff all the time.”

“Yes,” he replies: “but how often do I actually ask?”

She pauses to think: “Hm. Every…eight, nine years, I guess.”

Pete nods shortly. “Right. So take advantage of this rare moment of interest in the train wreck you call a life, and spill. What’s up?”

“Nothing’s up,” she shrugs: “Who said--”

“You’ve been a crazy person all week,” he interjects.

“I haven’t--”

“Crazy person,” Pete interjects again, rather loudly.

Liz winces. “…Really?”

“Believe me,” he tells her: “I know the difference between regular old Liz-the-nut behavior and the behavior of extremely nutty, something-is-up-Liz. With an extra side order of nuttiness.”

She scoffs. “I don’t think--”

Pete gets up, abruptly turning to leave.

She holds up a hand. “Okay! Okay…”

He pulls up his crate, plonks down again, points at her. “Go.”

She releases a big breath. “It’s the oldest, stupidest story in the book.”

“You’ve run out of lithium and your doctor is on a golfing holiday in Hawaii?” Pete guesses.

She makes a face: ”No!” then admits slowly, reluctantly: “I…slept with someone I shouldn’t have.”

Pete looks overtly surprised. “You had sex? Willingly? Is it August already?”

“Well, I didn’t…” She makes a few hand gestures, mumbles: “We _sort of_ had sex.”

Pete cocks his head. “How do you _sort of_ have sex?”

“We started. We… _were_ …well, you know,” she mumbles. “And then we…stopped. Before…”

“Well--” He spreads his hands, using a problem-solved kind of tone: “Doesn’t count if you don’t bump uglies.”

“No-no. We…bumped.” She nods, shakes her head, nods again: “There was…definite bumping. More than--but…only for a tiny little, barely there moment.”

“Wait. Lemme get this straight…” He shifts closer on his crate: “You and…”

“He,” she supplies.

“Right,” he nods: “Just checking.”

She rolls her eyes.

“You two…” He brings his hands together, fingers knitted.

She nods. “Right.”

“And then you…” He separates his hands.

She nods again. “Exactly.”

“Before you…” He makes an explosive gesture.

She cringes. “Yeah.”

Pete chuckles morbidly. “Can’t have been that good. If you both stopped.”

“Oh no,” she assures him, eyes averted: “it was good. It…would’ve been…good.”

“How good?”

Liz grabs a cookie from a box on the shelf, quickly stuffs it in her mouth.

Pete pulls back. “ _That_ good…?”

She blushes. And chews. And swallows. Hard.

“Jeez…” Pete shakes his head back and forth slowly. “And you made him stop? Way to castrate a guy, Lemon.”

She raises her face, creased with indignation. “He’s married, Pete! It was wrong! It shouldn’t have happened.”

“He’s _married_?”

“Yeah. And now I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s very simple,” he says. “Just don’t see him again. Ever. Cut all contact, and be done with it.”

“But I _have_ to see him,” she insists, tone becoming more strenuous: “I can’t _not_ see him. Every time I turn around, he’s there, just _there_ , saying stuff and…and looking at me and–”

Liz stalls when she looks up to see the expression on Pete’s face, the dawning comprehension in his eyes. Knowing her the way he does, it can’t have been too hard to put all the pieces into place. And in a way she’s relieved to have another soul share her secret. But with that relief comes further guilt and increased regret and crippling shame. Because she never thought she’d be this person. And it’s so hard to hear it out loud.

She sinks a little in her seat. “Am I a terrible person?”

“You’re not a terrible person,” he says, reaching a hand out to brush hers.

“Well, I’m not a good person,” she mutters: “He belongs to someone else.”

“You love him?” Pete asks.

And it would be so much easier to answer that question if he wasn’t aware of who they were discussing. Since he is, her cheeks start to burn. “Why does everyone keep asking that?”

“Seems like a pretty pertinent question,” he points out.

“Even if I did,” she sighs: “…what can I do? What?”

“Nothing,” he says: “You can’t do anything, if he’s married.”

“Exactly,” she murmurs, bowing her head.

“Go,” Pete says after a pause.

“What?”

He takes the notepad on her lap, the pen out of her hand. “Get outta here. Go home, shower. Put on a dress. Eat something not guaranteed to give you heart disease.” He smiles ruefully: “I need you back by five.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t, I _can’t_. I have to finish--”

“I’ll give it to Frank.” He nods towards the exit: “Go. Now.”

“But…I like it here,” she moans, glancing round her dark, cluttered little sanctuary: “I feel like a bear in hibernation.”

“And you look like one.” He cocks his head in warning. “Don’t make me say you smell like one too.”

She frowns. “I need to work right now.”

Pete rises, looking down at her. “Jack is bringing Rebecca to see the show tonight.”

Liz looks up, blinks, then nods. “I’m going.” She gets up, gives him the last of the sketches: “I’m gone.”

“Wear your red heels,” he offers as she passes.

She turns back, eyebrows raised. “That’s your great advice? Wear red shoes? _That’s_ what you’re giving me?”

“Best I can do,” Pete says, sticking her pen behind his ear: “Maybe you won’t feel so much like a hobbit.” He pauses then croaks menacingly: “ _My precious_.”

Liz snorts, walking away.

“And do everyone a favor and brush your teeth,” he calls after her: “cos your breath--”

She turns round, walking away backwards. “Enough sharing now, I think.”

Pete nods. “Okee-dokee.”

* * *

Liz does go home. She does shower, and brush her teeth. And she does wear her red heels back to the studio. But Rebecca doesn’t show, much to her relief. Neither does Jack, not until towards the end of the show. Even then, he doesn’t seem to have much interest in the commercial parody she slaved over, or the laughs it is getting from the audience. She sees him standing off to one side, scanning the floor, but she looks away before his eyes find her. In her peripheral vision, she sees him stride up to the desk where she is standing with Pete, pretending to follow her script. He puts one hand on the edge of the desk, fencing her in.

After a moment of her doing her best to ignore him, he leans in to hiss in her ear: “I need to talk to you.”

Liz half turns to look at him. “The show isn’t over yet.”

“Now,” Jack growls, then walks away.

Liz casts a sideways look at Pete, who raises knowing brows at her.

“You _should not_ have worn those shoes,” he mutters under his breath.

She purses her lips, narrows her eyes at him before turning to follow Jack.

Jack waits for her to catch up then trails her into the dim maze of shelves and equipment, wire fence and narrow tunnels that make up the backstage area of the studio. He waits until they’re out of earshot of anyone who could possibly be listening before speaking.

“Where have you been?” he asks: “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Nowhere,” she answers, without turning. “Here.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says with hurt tinged honesty.

“I thought we were avoiding each other,” she mumbles, slowing her pace.

She takes a wrong turn, quickly doubling back, briefly brushing by him. Jack follows, but a second later one hand shoots out to seize her elbow. He pulls her back against his body and she can’t help stopping, she can’t help the gasp that escapes her mouth. Or her lips parting, or her head falling back, or her resistance crumbling at the feel of him. His hands are warm and big on her body and they feel like exactly what she’s been needing but hasn’t been able to find no matter how many boxes of cookies she makes her way through. All the cheese in all the world could never make up for the lack of this sensation.

She stumbles forward a bit, and he follows, never breaking the contact between the front of his body and the back of hers. Eyes closed, she catches herself on a shelf, that rattles as both her hands clasp it, something falling to the ground with a clatter. She pushes back against him, feeling one big hand move higher and one venture lower. His thumb grazes the edge of her breast and she pushes into it, sighing when she feels herself cupped by his palm. The other hand is on her thigh, caressing insistently while his mouth latches onto her neck, kissing her once before drawing her flesh between his lips and sucking hard.

She rocks back against him, feels him rock into her in reply and mutter her name into her hair. Which is when Liz recovers a little of her senses. It’s also when Jack’s hand moves from her leg up to cover her apex, warm and possessive. One of her own hands darts down – but instead of stopping him she scrunches up her dress messily and parts her legs, allowing his hand to slide in and cup her properly, stroke her through one layer of cotton.

He groans her name, her last name, the sound of it wrenched with both desire and agony. She can feel the vibration penetrate her spine, her skin, her gut. Her body buckles with it -- his too. They’re both bent at the waist, his arm wrapped round her, her arm reinforcing his, not a breath between them, his mouth on her neck and his fingers sliding under her underwear to taste her slippery desire.

The moment he does, Liz moves suddenly, breaks away, slips out from under him. She doesn’t know how, she doesn’t know why. She doesn’t know anything. Except she wants out, she can’t breathe. She walks without thinking, without looking back. And when she finds herself back on the surface, back in her normal, safe world, laughter bouncing off the walls, and bright lights cast on the stage where thankfully everyone is still focused on the concluding show, Liz takes off her red heels and runs.

* * *

Liz never _means_ to invade Jack’s office. It’s not like it’s an intentional thing when she barges in with something urgent on her mind. She doesn’t get some big thrill out of annoying Jonathan -- although it is an added perk -- or disturbing Jack’s day. Over the years, she’s done it with alarming regularity, but that was never the reason why. Like most of her reactions when it comes to Jack, it’s far more involuntary. This time, however, she doesn’t feel any obligation or inclination to even try to stop herself. She feels wholly justified in storming right past Jonathan with his tart scowl – he knows better than to try to stop her now -- slamming the door to Jack’s office behind her.

“ _You’re separated?!_ ”

Seated behind his desk, Jack looks up, brows slightly raised. His eyes skate over her, top to toe then back up again. She’s not sure why. She’s not wearing anything even slightly pretty or provocative. In fact, she’s deliberately given up trying to look decent, especially around Jack. She’s wearing her usual uniform, the one he generally either overlooks or only acknowledges with a disapproving glance. Jeans, sweater, ponytail. That is it. Nothing to interest him, or lure any man. Nothing to see, pal, move it along.

Perhaps though, the lingering look is more meant to gauge her emotional state, especially since lately she’s pretty much ceased all communication with him. Largely because she’s not real sure herself what her emotional state is, or should be, or might be if caught in his vicinity. She doesn’t trust herself to be rational, and she likes to be rational when she can. Not that she has been of late. Actually, she’s been such a muddle for such a long time that she’s kind of gotten used to it. Because when it comes to Jack, trying to pick individual emotions out of an immense, swirling accumulation of them is downright tricky.

Right now, confused comes to mind. Frustrated, a little, understandably. And angry, she’s definitely angry. That’s pretty clear. To both of them, probably. She’s gonna stick with that emotion for the present. Feels good. Feels safe. And also, rather justified.

After a pause and a prolonged appraisal, Jack looks her in the eye, answering gravely. “Yes.”

“ _Since when?!_ ” she demands, arms gesturing emphatically.

He takes a cursory glance at his desk calendar. “Twelve days.”

Her mouth drops open. “The other night--?”

“Yes,” he answers quickly.

Her eyes blink at him, uncomprehending. “ _Why_ would you not _tell me_ this?”

“I couldn’t find you,” Jack says, rising from his seat.

She rolls her eyes, turning away, circling on the spot.

“If I could,” he adds, buttoning his jacket: “I couldn’t get you alone. I didn’t exactly want to make an announcement to the entire writer’s room that my barely four-month marriage was crumbling at my feet.” He moves out from behind his desk, takes a step toward her, murmuring: “And truthfully…I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear it.”

Liz lets out a breath, lets her eyes meet his. But remains silent.

“How’d you find out?” Jack asks quietly.

“I just saw Rebecca,” she huffs. “Outside Radio City. With, I dunno… _some_ _guy.”_

“I see.”

Her eyes narrow at his blank expression. “Doesn’t that _upset_ you?”

“It doesn’t surprise me,” he replies. “To be frank, you seem more upset about our situation than she did.”

“And what exactly _is_ \--” she asks, making exaggerated quotation marks in the air: “ _your situation_?”

“We’re getting annulled,” he says simply.

“Annulled?”

“Yes.”

She scoffs in disbelief. “That’s ridiculous.’“

“Nevertheless.”

“It’s…not possible.”

Jack lifts his brows imperiously. “With the right connections and enough money, anything is possible.”

“But Jack…!” Her lips part, speechless for one moment. Then, in a rush: “How can you possibly get _annulled_? You took _vows_. In a _church_. With a _priest_. After a short, but -- for you -- sufficient engagement period. I was there, _remember_? I don’t recall anyone putting a gun to your head.”

He looks down briefly, stuffs one hand in one pocket. “The marriage wasn’t consummated.”

“Oh _please!_ ” She rolls her eyes, narrows them at him. “D’you think really you’re gonna get anyone to believe that?”

Jack stuffs his other hand away too. “I have an excellent legal team. As does she.”

“ _She_ has a name,” Liz reminds him tartly.

“I’m aware of it,” he replies glibly: “It’s in the annulment papers.”

“So…what?” She shakes her head back and forth, brow furrowed. “You’re just gonna make it like nothing ever happened? Rebecca’s going to be one more woman you just wipe from that oh-so-convenient memory of yours? Is that the idea, Jack?”

“Lemon,” he says, a streak of acidity to his tone: “if you would like to hear my side of this dismal, little story I am more than willing to share it with you.” He pauses, fixes her with a look: “ _Do you_ wish to hear what I have to say?”

She lowers her face, all the force suddenly leaving her voice. “I don’t know. I…I don’t know.”

Jack is silent a moment. He steps a little closer, saying in a softer tone: “I feel I owe you honesty, at the very least.”

“Is it because of me?” she blurts, lifting her head then immediately screwing her eyes shut: “Augh! Why did I--? Forget I-- _Don’t_ …answer that.” She opens her eyes, sighs. “But was it? Because of--?”

Jack half smiles, rather sadly. “Yes,” he says: “And no.”

She frowns at him. “What’s that mean?”

“Lemon…” He takes another step towards her, rethinks, and starts again with: “Liz. I am aware that I have made…an appalling mess of everything, that I have marred our friendship. Hopefully, not beyond repair.” He looks down, then back at her face. “I can’t think of a single reason why you should forgive me. But I am asking you to, nevertheless.”

“It…” She lets out a breath, shakes her head, admitting softly: “it wasn’t all your fault, Jack. What…happened.”

He studies her for a moment beneath troubled brows. “I felt sure it was.”

She ducks her head, tells the rug: “No.”

“Look…” He closes the rest of the distance between them, stumbling slightly on his words: “I’ve…never been here before. Honestly, I’m not sure what to do here. I want to fix this. But I don’t know how. I don’t know…what you want.”

Liz is silent a moment. “Let’s…let’s go to dinner.”

Jack hesitates. “Dinner?”

She nods. “That’s what I want. Food.”

“How surprising.” He gives her an uncertain, baffled smile. “How about tonight? Are you…free?”

She nods again. “Tonight’s good.”

“Ah…” He shuffles on his feet, smile growing. “Where would you like to go?”

“Anywhere,” she shrugs: “I don’t care.”

“Tonight then,” he murmurs. “Just you and me. We’ll…talk.”

“Yeah.” She attempts a smile as she backs toward the door. “We’ll…do that.”

“I’ll take care of everything,” Jack calls after her.

Liz nods, swings the door shut behind her, making it rattle again on its hinges. She pauses outside the door, one hand lifting to her lips, and doubt immediately beginning to set in. Jonathan scowls at her and she hurries away, suddenly seized by her own misgivings.

They get worse as her day goes on. She manages to entertain second, third and fourth thoughts. All more than once. And the closer to evening it gets, the less sure she is that her spontaneous idea was such an awesome one. She considers cancelling. But she does, if possible, wish to salvage her relationship with Jack. She does, of course, want to be with him. She just isn’t sure they’re ready to be alone. If _she_ is ready for them to be alone. She has no clue where they were going, what to expect. Or whether they are even going to be able to be with each other in the same way. And that puts her, and keeps her on edge.

Until they touch down in Chicago. That night, Jack arranges a private jet and then a fancy car to take them to Pizza Explosion, her favourite haunt, back in the day. As gestures go, it's a fairly big one. Not that Jack knows any other kind. It’s also a vaguely confusing one. Still, as soon as their plane hits tarmac, all Liz’s fears seem to magically disappear.

All her eyes want to do is take in the city she used to call home. All her mouth wants to do is relay to Jack all the memories, good, bad and excruciating, that the city still holds for her. So that by the time they are seated on Pizza Explosion’s plastic, orange seats, with an assortment of their finest offerings between them, the two of them seem to have located their lost rapport. Or maybe it was not lost. Maybe it was just temporarily mislaid. Maybe it’s being in another city, away from their normal lives that makes all that has gone before seem trivial and distant and over. She finds herself thinking that maybe, after everything, it really is possible for them to be friends again.

She assumes that’s what he wants.

She assumes it’s what she wants.

As they finish their dinner, Liz is feeling all kinds of good. Her stomach full and her mouth appeased and her head spinning with flavor. Neither of them has had a single drink with dinner, except soda. Neither of them have broached any subject of any importance either, despite their promise to do so. They have not discussed Jack’s failed marriage or the night they almost slept together or what might happen in the future. If anything, they’ve avoided talking about all those things. Jack particularly. He seems to be taking all his cues from her, watching her covertly, following her lead. He doesn’t seem to want to put a foot wrong. Perhaps he is still trying to make amends.

It’s the only thing that doesn’t feel right about the whole night. Because whatever he believes, she doesn’t resent him, she doesn’t blame him, she isn’t even that angry with him now. She just doesn’t know how to say that, when to say it or even if to say it. She doesn’t want to disrupt a virtually perfect night. She doesn’t want to disturb the ease that hasn’t flowed between them in such a long time. And she definitely does not realize that is exactly what she is doing when she puts her head in her hand, slurring in her mozzarella-induced bliss:

“I love it here, I wanna stay here, let’s not go back, not yet, maybe not ever. Let’s stay, you and me, just for tonight.”

Jack instantly goes silent. She straightens, feeling the air around them thicken, the moment stretch and turn more significant. She glances around, looking for someone to rescue her from herself. Her eyes dart to Jack who just smiles, fingering the lip of his water glass.

She laughs nervously: “I just meant--”

“I know, Lemon,” he murmurs, eyes lowered to the tabletop. “Although…I won’t say the idea didn’t occur to me.”

“What…idea?” she asks, as if they both aren’t thinking the same thing.

Jack looks up, smirking ever so slightly at her weak attempt to deny her own thoughts. The smirk disappears though as he shifts in closer, pinning her eyes with his. “I think I may need to make something clear here.”

Liz swallows, taken aback by the sudden change in atmosphere. “O-Okay.”

“I _know…_ what I want,” he says, voice slow, purposeful. “But, after what happened. At work. And…that night--” He stops, looks down, shakes his head, then meets her eyes again, holds them. “I don’t make a move without you. Not a single move. It’s your move now. It has to be.”

“My move?” she repeats, blinking.

Jack dips his head once, slowly. “We could stay. Tonight. Together. If that is what you want.” He draws in a breath, blue eyes intent and serious. “Or…we can go back to New York and pretend like none of this ever happened. _None_ of it. It’s up to you, it’s your choice--”

She leans in unconsciously, breath held.

Jack looks her in the eye. “Your move.”

* * *

Earlier that evening when Liz was getting dressed, she wasn’t sure what to wear. A predicament she didn’t find herself in too often. Fashion was not exactly high on her list of priorities. It was Jack, in fact, who’d taught her that she shouldn’t necessarily wear in the evening what she’d been wearing all day. That it was far more advantageous to actually dress for her dates. In women’s clothes, preferably. Of course, she wasn’t sure whether what she and Jack were doing that evening _was_ a date. All she knew was, she _wanted_ to dress nice for Jack. Which…said…something.

Liz never really knew what would happen in Jack’s company. Not since the first time they went out and she got sharked. She knew only to expect surprises. So for all she knew, Jack could be planning to take her to the most up-scale bistro in the city or her favourite hotdog vendor. Frankly, she would be happy with either, and not just because she was guaranteed a good feed. Although…that did help. The point was, whatever unease she felt about their whole situation, she was looking forward to spending the evening with her best friend. A man who possessed an unpredictability she had come to find…distinctly charming.

Still, as she stood surveying her rather pitiful wardrobe, with only twenty minutes until Jack knocked on her door, Liz found herself wishing she had a little clue as to what their evening would entail. She almost longed for the time when everything between them was so settled, so predictable, so safe. Now…nothing seemed settled. Nothing looked familiar. And she couldn’t predict what was going to occur between them that night. Whether it was to be the night she and Jack got their fledgling friendship back on track. Or whether it would be the night they were finally able to be honest with each other about what they might mutually desire. Running her eyes over herself in the mirror, Liz wasn’t sure whether their night together would be about ending something that should never have started. Or about starting something that might stand a chance at never ending.

Even if she knew this though, she still would not know what to dress herself in. Because really, what do you wear to dinner with someone when you’ve stood next to them as they married someone you knew wouldn’t make them happy, you’ve realized you’ve probably been in love with them for years and been kidding yourself about it, and you’ve practically committed adultery with them and been hiding from it ever since? It’s an awful lot to ask of any outfit. She can’t say she’d ever had to ask herself that question before, or ever put so much pressure on one single ensemble. Her wardrobe was simply not up to the challenge. As such, Liz stuck to more simple questions.

As in; jeans or dress? She could just imagine Jack’s reaction to her wearing her jeans out on a dinner date, even a platonic one, _if_ that’s what this was. Or rather she could imagine Jack’s normal, predictable reaction, not his reaction in this odd, alternate reality they were now in where they had to mentally screen everything before saying it aloud. A skill she wasn’t very gifted at. She did know this though -- Jack was a man who liked women to wear dresses. He liked _her_ to wear dresses. He’d never said this. She’d just picked up on it, from the way his eyes would take her in when he thought she wasn’t aware, or even when he knew she was completely aware. So Liz had picked out one of her few simple but stylish black dresses, the one with the white ruffle on the bust. The fact that Jack had complimented her on the same dress last time she wore it was just coincidental.

Next; glasses or no glasses? A tricky one considering how blind she was. But, as she felt fairly blindsided by this whole evening that was developing, she opted for no glasses. She did not know where they were going or what they were doing or what would come of it. So what did it matter if she bumped into some stuff? And maybe she wanted to look a bit pretty. There was nothing wrong with that. So, no glasses. Last but not least; underwear or no underwear? That one was a no-brainer, at least. She was not Jenna and had no desire to emulate her dating history. She opted for underwear -- nice ones.

Later in the evening, thusly attired, she is more than shocked when Jack presents her with a much more complicated question. An ultimatum, of sorts. And the answer, she thinks in the ensuing, uncomfortable silence, should, by rights, be equally complicated. This ultimatum he’s presenting her with should take some thought. On both their parts. Her response should be reasonable and considered. Because sex – she read this somewhere – should never become the solution for any relationship.

And that is what Jack is offering, she’s sure of it. Actual sex. The naked kind. Between them. In which she would probably get to touch him and…do other things to him. Things she doesn’t think she’s ever wanted to do to anyone else. Ever. Not as badly, most definitely. And he would be touching her. And…doing other things to her. Things she wants. So badly that’s it’s an actual physical yearning swirling round her gut, making her body start to secretly heat and liquefy.

Logically, she can recognize the irrationality of the idea. She knows this is a moment in which she should show some restraint, some maturity. They should wait, her brain intercedes, they should absolutely do some waiting and some thinking about…things. Maybe they should date a little, talk about the future, see if they’re compatible as a couple. They should even put it off until after Jack’s annulment is final, or after the scars they’re both hiding have healed over a bit. It would be the smart thing to do. It’s not the thing she _wants_ to do, but it would undoubtedly be the smarter option. She gets that, she knows it, she’s not totally unaware.

She also knows that Jack would never, ever, not in a trillion years, suggest this unless everything was absolutely over between him and Rebecca. And given the choice – and _it is_ her choice, he’s giving it to her – all Liz can think is that this decision too, is just a complete no-brainer. For the first time in her life – when it comes to sex, anyway -- she has the insane but overpowering urge to just jump right in. And ask all the messy questions later. Much, much…s _o much_ later. Because this could take awhile. She hopes.

And because things are finally lining up for old Liz Lemon. For once, old Liz Lemon actually knows what she wants. She’s gonna get it too. Because with four simple words, she alters her fate. Hers and his. Four words that tell Jack: ‘I want to stay.’ And the look in his eyes, of both surprise and anticipation, makes her very happy she wore the nice underwear and the dress he likes. And that she practically demanded he take her to dinner. And that he has access to a private jet and likes the pizza she loves. She’s very, very happy about all of those things. And about the fact that their night together is working out exactly the way she never dared hope it would.

On the curb outside Pizza Explosion, she turns to Jack, asking suddenly: “So -- when I asked you whether you and Rebecca breaking up was because of me--”

Jack looks over at her. “Yes?”

“And you said,” she continues, confused: “yes and no--”

He nods, shifting a little closer. “Yes.”

She bites her lip. “What…exactly did that mean?”

Their car pulls up and Jack opens the door. He puts out one arm, lays his palm on her back, a little lower than he normally might. She sees his eyes momentarily divert to her lips, but remembers what he said about not making a move without her. It’s her turn to make the moves now.

When his eyes meet hers, he replies simply: “It meant yes, I am in love with you.” He pauses there, mouth curving up at each edge as he watches her reaction. “And no, you were not the sole cause.”

She nods a few times. “Okay then.”

“There were many things…I did not realize,” he tells her, voice low, hesitant. “Not the least of which was what you mean to me.”

Mildly stunned by his words, Liz allows herself to be guided toward the open car door but stops just before ducking inside. “Are you…gonna tell me some of those other things too?” she asks, not wanting to ruin the mood they have building but unable to help the question.

Towering over her on the curb, Jack tucks some hair behind her ear before looking down. “In time,” he nods, then follows her into the car, giving the driver the name of a hotel.

In the elevator, on the way up to the room Jack acquired for them, he says to her, as if continuing their former conversation: “And Lemon, I do not just _forget_ women.” He turns his gaze on her, a twinkle in his eye. “At least not --“

“The unforgettable ones?” she finishes, one eyebrow arched.

He smiles slightly. “ _Not…_ what I was going to say. But I see you get the gist.” He is silent a moment, glancing about the swanky elevator as he rocks on his heels. “I won’t forget this,” he murmurs so softly that she almost doesn’t hear.

Liz slips her hand into his, feels him squeeze her fingers. “Me neither.”

Jack lifts her hand to his mouth, looks at her as he kisses the back of it. “I hope not.”

She smiles, letting her hand remain in his as the elevator dings open on their floor and they step off.

As Jack unlocks the door to the room in which they will spend the night together, butterflies invade her stomach. Big, fat, fluttery ones. He turns to her, giving her a small smile as he tucks the keycard into his pocket. And her mouth instantly goes dry, tacky like she’s been eating peanut butter out of the jar. Which she hasn’t, of course. She watches him draw in a breath, eyes going all soft and hungry as he looks at her, and her heart actually speeds up. But when she stays firmly rooted on the spot, just outside the room, Jack steps inside, holding the door with one hand and reaching for her elbow with the other.

Her eyes are glued to his face as she steps over the threshold and wanders a little way in. When he turns to survey their room, breaking eye contact, Liz stops abruptly in shock. Her eyes go wide as she takes in the enormous chamber, the lavish oriental carpet, the tall, elegant drapes and the massive, sumptuously decked out bed against the furthest wall of the room. There is something utterly daunting about it’s altitude, it’s expanse, it’s exoticness, it’s prominence. This is a bed to live up to, and she’s not sure she is up to the task.

“I…can’t have sex here,” she stammers, eyes fixed on the bed in all its glory. “I can’t even sleep here...” Mouth hanging open, she peers to each side at the small fireplace, the matching loveseats, the fresh flowers on the ornate coffee table. “Yikes. Look at this place…It’s like a…palace or something.”

“That’s why I didn’t get the penthouse,” Jack tells her, holding her shoulders and leaning down to her ear: “I knew you wouldn’t be comfortable.”

“Jeepers…” She takes a few uncertain steps inside their little love nest. Or rather, their colossal, slightly over-decorated love nest.

Jack moves easily through the space, heading for one of the plush loveseats and taking off his jacket. “You didn’t think I was going to take you to some sleazy roadside motel, did you?”

“I really…didn’t know…” she mumbles absently, now distracted by something else altogether.

She’s too busy watching him actually. Taking in the movement of his body, the outline of his back beneath his shirt. She’s checking out his butt, is what she’s doing. It ain’t half bad either. And she’s listening to his voice, the way it rasps and rumbles. She’s always liked that about Jack. She can’t believe – especially with all the weird things she knows about him and all the ridiculous things they’ve been through – that she can lust after him the way she does. She’s never been one to lust after anyone. Even actual boyfriends, people she’s had reluctant sex with. And it’s not that Jack is more perfect for her than any of them. He is probably less perfect, less perfect for her.

She knows this, and she doesn’t care. She’s aware of all of Jack’s imperfections. Well, not all -- at least, not yet. But somehow, she can’t wait to get her hands on those imperfections. Each and every one of them. Show them a little loving, Lemon-style. She hopes Jack feels the same way. She thinks he does, by the way his eyes rake over her when he turns to face her. He undoes one button on his tie-less shirt as his gaze drifts from her feet up, lingering at her hips before rising to meet her eyes. Her breathing instantly deepens and she knows he must notice how her breasts rise and fall deeply beneath her dress. Just as he must see her cheeks start to grow hot.

“Ah…” He clears his throat, motions to a drinks tray: “Would you…like a drink?”

She swallows, shakes her head mutely.

“I could order champagne,” he offers: “With strawberries. If you like.”

She shakes her head again. She doesn’t want either of them to be even slightly drunk for this. They both need to be absolutely aware of what they’re doing. She doesn’t want a single thing to be dulled or forgotten or regretted.

“Something to eat, then?” Jack tries again, stammering just slightly.

Liz bites her lip. “No.”

Jack looks impressed. And surprised. “Well…” He places his hands on his hips, musing in a lilting tone: “Now that you have me here…what _are_ you going to do with me?”

There is a momentary silence, where everything seems to pause, time seems to suspend. Liz smiles slowly, draws in a breath. And something inside her shifts, shatters, resolves. For good. She walks toward him in a straight line. Not fast but not slow. She puts her hands on his upper arms. Leans up. And kisses him. Soft but sure. Jack’s hands go to her hips as he kisses her back, tentative at first then with increasing boldness. Her hands travel to his shoulders, barely pausing before heading down his body. His hands remain stationary, loose on her body. This time, she is the one rushing a bit, perhaps due to nerves. And Jack is the one holding back. She can feel it. She shuffles closer, presses against him, hands venturing lower, hoping to ignite something deeper in him.

But Jack pulls back. “He-ey,” he chuckles, trying to keep himself in check: “Don’t you…don’t you wanna take this slow?”

She shakes her head, replies breathlessly: “I want you. That’s what I want.”

His head dips toward her, eyes closing over. “Say that again.”

Her arms snake around his neck, her lips brush his. “I want you,” she says again, without feeling too awkward about saying it aloud. Actually, it’s a relief to speak the truth, an immense relief.

“Again,” Jack grunts, forehead against hers.

“I want you,” she repeats. She’s not even trying to make her voice sound sexy, it just comes out that way, even she can hear it. “I want you…” she whispers after another kiss: “I love you. I…think.”

Jack smiles, hands running up the arms that are around his neck. “You think?” he murmurs: “Or you know?”

Liz opens her mouth, overcome by this strange new intimacy, the feel of him against her and around her, the undisguised affection in his eyes. She softens into him, puts her cheek against his body. “I wouldn’t be here…if I didn’t.”

Jack wraps his arms around her, lets out a breath. After a pause, he says a quiet: “I’m sorry.”

She pulls back to look at him. “Stop apologizing. Now.” She takes a step back, out of his arms. She smiles lopsidedly, fingers twisted in his shirt: “And start undressing,” she adds, backing towards the big, scary bed with him in tow. “ _Now_.”

His eyes twinkle as he follows, as his hands untuck his shirt then start to unbutton it. When the backs of her legs hit the edge of the bed, Liz puts both hands behind her, hoisting herself up onto it and watching Jack rid himself of the shirt, then run a hand through his hair, making it spike in all directions.

He smirks at her, one hand on his not insubstantial belly. “How do like me now?”

She runs her eyes over the big belly and the think fur and the skin of a fifty-year-old, and she does not lie. “More and more.”

“I’ll keep going then,” he mutters, leaning in to kiss her.

He kicks off his shoes, unbuckles his belt. She helps as they continue to kiss and once he is in his boxers and only his boxers, his hands go to her waist, travelling downwards as he kneels. He looks up at her as he removes her shoes, one at a time, leaving them by the bed. He kisses each of her knees once, palms sliding up the backs of her bare calves. Liz reaches for him, both hands diving into his hair as he kisses up her body, her thighs, her apex, her stomach, between her breasts, until he finds her mouth with his. She lets out a moan, lets herself fall back, lets his hands have free reign over her body.

Her name is expelled from his mouth on a long moan as she arches beneath him. And with that motion, that one deeply hungry word, something of the fire they initiated on that unfinished night in her apartment seems to resurface, flaring back into being. Their kisses become more feverish, their hands more purposeful. They pull her dress off together and all other clothing is carelessly flung away as they move higher on the bed. Liz’s head is deep in the soft pillows as Jack settles between her open thighs. Eyes on her face, he slips a hand between their bodies, eyes going tender as he moves his fingers over her most intimate area, spreading the moisture he’s created. She parts her legs further, presses up against him, adjusting herself beneath his bulk.

This is usually the most uncomfortable part for her – this closeness, this moment before joining. And it’s not that it’s so much more comfortable with Jack, though it’s better than any other time. It’s just that her desire for him outweighs…everything, in this moment. Absolutely everything. She loves his touch. Loves just the idea of it, the thought of Jack’s thick fingers stroking her sex, memorizing her folds and valleys, preparing her for what’s going to come next. And the thought that another part of him is going to replace where his fingers are now teasing her open fills her with a rare, simultaneous urgency and contentment.

“Can I taste you?” Jack asks, voice rough and soft. “I want to do that.”

Her eyes close over as his fingers brush her clit. “Not now…” she breathes, almost unaware of the words that spill out of her mouth. “I need you inside me.”

He nods. She feels the movement, feels him kiss her lips lightly. She opens her eyes in time to see his Adam’s Apple bob as he withdraws to dig a condom out of his abandoned pants.

She sits up, hugging her knees. “You came prepared.”

“I’m always prepared.” Jack replies, climbing back on the bed, coming at her on hands and knees.

She laughs hesitantly. “Why? Did…Rebecca always forget to take her birth control pills too?”

Jack collapses beside her on the pillows. “Rebecca’s gay.”

Liz stalls, for one moment feeling like she’s been winded. Once she recovers, her eyes flick toward him. “You’re…not kidding.”

“No. I’m not,” he murmurs.

“But…” She shakes her head, heart beating hard for some reason. _“How? Why?”_

“ _Why_?” he echoes incredulously.

“I mean…” She brushes her fingers over her lips, forehead creased in confusion, in compassion. “You…didn’t know this, obviously.”

“We had our issues,” Jack admits, eyes cast anywhere but at her face. “Which I was ridiculous enough to believe would resolve.”

She is silent, utterly at a loss. “You’re not ridiculous,” she tells him, shifting closer on her side. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I actually don’t,” he replies. “Not right now, at any rate.”

His voice sounds assured, uncaring. Almost cold, if she didn’t know better. And he still doesn’t meet her gaze. But all at once, lots of things fall into place in her head.

Like why Jack never rhapsodized about his home life or his honeymoon or his sexual escapades with his drop dead gorgeous wife. Like why they always seemed to live such separate lives. Why all of her extended business trips, and the lack of little physical displays of affection, and the avoidance of any talk of children. Why his doubts. Why her inscrutability. Like why, even though Rebecca seemed to care deeply for him, why there was something about her that remained removed, enigmatic, untouchable. Why they fell apart so swiftly and why, rather than getting a divorce, Jack was seeking an annulment. Why he came to her that night, both nights. Needing help, assurance, escape, intimacy -- but unable to state the real cause. Why they happened the way they did. Why his frustration and anguish came out the way it did. And why he’d felt so ashamed afterwards.

A lot of things make sense to her. And a lot of things just don’t matter now. She can see the shame that lines his face, that would barely show to anyone but her. For a man like Jack – so sensual, so proud – she can only imagine how this must have shook him, tortured him. And he never said a word to her, not a single word. She’s sure he had his reasons, many and good. Possibly one was a fear that she’d make a bad joke or say something insensitive. She’s definitely not going to make that mistake now. She’s going to do exactly what she knows he needs.

She’s going to want him, every single atom of him. And let him see it. And that is not going to be difficult. Because she does. She wants him, she wants him now, and she’s no longer afraid to show it. She’s going to communicate with Jack in a language she knows he’ll find unmistakable.

She lays a hand on his chest. Slides it deliberately downwards until she reaches his groin. Where she takes him in hand and gives him one long stroke. His eyes close over. She leans in, kissing him three times as she gives him another slow, firm stroke. Jack gasps her name. Her first name. And she moves down, tucking her face against his shoulder and kissing his neck as she teases the head of his cock with her thumb. Her mouth moves lower, to his chest, his hairy, heaving chest that she just loves. Jack lifts a hand to her hair, kisses her head as her hand sets up a steady rhythm on him.

She continues her attentions, continues to pepper him all over with slow, soft kisses until he urges her head up with two fingers under her chin. He kisses her mouth, rolls her beneath him, and meets her gaze. She sees the naked need in the blue she knows so well, the relief, the desire, the love. And no regret. She lies back on the sweet-smelling bed, feeling him half cover her as his mouth dives down to her chest. Her hand stills but her fingers remain clasped loosely round his erection as Jack takes her entire breast into his mouth with a grateful groan. She gasps and giggles, her flesh jiggling as he tries to mumble her name with his mouth full.

“You taste good,” he tells her when he releases one breast, moving over to give the other the same treatment, laving it, nipping at the peak before swallowing it whole.

She gasps again, arches into him, the sensation of being engulfed both ticklish and titillating. When he is done making her cringe with both sensations, Jack moves back onto his heels, looking more than a little pleased with himself. She watches him tear open the foil, a slight tremor in his hand as he rolls the rubber onto himself. She spreads her legs, inviting him back in. Wraps them both round him and returns her hands to his hair as he lowers his mouth to hers. His kiss is possibly the best thing she’s ever known, and it’s fast becoming her favourite thing ever. It’s indescribable, how it feels to have him kiss her, to kiss him back, to draw moans from his mouth and echo them back to him, to feel that connection after years of denying it.

Jack pulls back, gazing down at her with half-lidded eyes. “Are you ready?” he asks in a ragged whisper.

And she knows he’s thinking of that night, that first time. The shock they both felt, the regret she knows he felt. Her biggest regret was that it might be the one and only time they were together. That the memory of it might overshadow every other memory they had of each other. That it might infect them, their friendship, morph it, muddy it. Most of all, she regretted that they hadn’t been able to finish what they’d started.

But now, they could.

They could replace that memory with this one. A night they chose to be together. A night they were free to be together. A night they were able to enjoy being together, experience the bliss of their first time. On a bed fit for a king and queen, no less. Despite all that had gone before, they could still have this. This would be their real first time. And that other false start would be wiped away -- or at least, significantly dimmed in comparison.

At her nod, and her subsequent, eager kiss, Jack starts to enter her, slowly, relishing every single millimeter of depth. And instantly, everything seems perfect and better and different and hazy. Because this is how it’s meant to be, how it was always meant to be. Everything else was, not a mistake, but a prelude. An agonizing prelude, but nothing more. And this is what they were always headed for. Always. It was almost inevitable. If only they’d known. This was possible. They might not have taken so much time, piled up so many regrets. But those too could be wiped away, their slate cleaned. Because if not for each of those regrets, this present moment would not seem half so sweet.   

“You feel amazing,” she tells him once he’s fully embedded. She wraps her arms around his body, lets all the air leave her body before drawing in a new breath to tell him: “Don’t stop now.”

Jack leans down to kiss her, eyes closed. And when he opens them, he locks his gaze on hers, rises up onto his hands and starts to thrust.

* * *

Later – so much later -- they do order champagne and strawberries and lots and lots of very fine, tasty food. They eat it on the palatial bed, the sheets now blissfully tossed and tangled. Liz wears Jack’s dress shirt and a smile. Jack wears his boxers and an open robe with the hotel’s logo embroidered on its pocket. He’s already told her he intends to steal it and keep it as a treasured memento of their first night together. He did offer to steal her one too, which he interpreted as being highly romantic. Liz is seeing pretty much everything as romantic right now, so she did not disagree, but she did refuse to be his accomplice.

“So...” Jack bites into a strawberry, finishing his sentence after he swallows: “Any regrets?”

Liz surveys the half-empty plates and bowls with a pout. “We should’ve got another of those fancy panini things because they were awesome and I’m still hungry.”

“About _us_ ,” Jack murmurs amusedly. “Not the food.”

“Oh.” She looks over at him, tips her head to one side. “There’s an ‘us’ now.” It’s more of a statement than a query.

But Jack answers anyway with a small smile. “There is after tonight.”

She smiles back at him – her man, her big, hairy, thieving man -- eyes glowing with warmth. “Regrets are for horseshoes and handbags.”

Jack lifts both brows. “What’s that mean?”

“I have no idea.” She munches thoughtfully on a corner of panini, adding: “I think it means I can’t think of one. Not a single one.” She takes a sip of champagne, tipping the glass at him: “How about you?”

“I have plenty of regrets,” Jack sighs, lying down on his side, head propped in one hand. “But--” his eyes meet hers: “none about tonight.”

Liz leans over, pops the last piece of awesome panini in his mouth, garnering a quick kiss for her fingertips. “Good,” she says, lying down beside him. When Jack moves onto his back, she arranges her head on his shoulder. And after a moment of lying together, staring up at the ceiling in silence, she turns to him with a hopeful expression. “So, you wanna do it again?”

Jack lifts his head, blinks once, slowly. And smiles.

_END._

Find the rest of my "30 Rock" fanfic [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/812100/Mindy35)


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